


Coffee in Martinique

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, Greg Lestrade is a Gorgeous Beast, Irresistible Greg, Lust, M/M, Mycroft Holmes's One Weakness, Semi-Public Sex, The Black Shirt, sex holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26813182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: On a clandestine sex holiday to Martinique with the man that he's wanted for years now, Mycroft Holmes finds himself tempted beyond the point of endurance.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 52
Kudos: 451





	Coffee in Martinique

**Author's Note:**

> This pocket-sized version of [_End Game_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13703886) used to be housed with my ficlets. Now it lives here, where it can be properly tagged and bookmarked. <3 Written with thanks to Rupert Graves for murdering me during his episode of _Death in Paradise_.
> 
> **As with all my fics, if you find them posted somewhere other than AO3, please give me a shout.**

A hand rests on the back of Mycroft's chair. His companion reappears at last, taking his seat with a smile.

"Sorry, gorgeous," Lestrade says. "Lost the bloody room key, would you believe?" 

He reaches for the menu. 

"I found it," he adds, in reassurance, as he scrapes in his chair. "It was in my other board shorts. Don't know why I didn't check them first, really..."

He scans the menu with interest, picking up the glass of ti punch that Mycroft has already arranged for him. His face tightens and relaxes at once as he sips, reading, oblivious to the startled silence he has caused.

With his meal chosen, the man travelling with full MI5 clearance as  _ Holmes, M. Guest _ puts the menu down, glances across the table, and finally discovers that Holmes, M. has been struck near dumb by his arrival.

"—you okay?" Greg checks, concerned. His grin dims. "Have I got something on my face?"

_ Two and a half decades in politics, _ Mycroft thinks, appalled with himself, and arranges his face into seriousness. Two and a half decades, and he can't even mask a reaction as simple as lust.

"I've never seen you wear black," Mycroft notes, as if it is a trifle, and occupies himself with the menu. He already knows he's having the fricassée de chatrou. "It suits you."

Lestrade's grin grows bright once more. He looks down at his black shirt, amused. "Really?"

The wretched thing fits him perfectly, Mycroft notes with another glance. It's formed the most fascinating V across his collarbones, pointing the way from the topmost-fastened button, out to those delectable, broad, police-officer's shoulders.

Mycroft finds himself glaring at the button, willing it to surrender to the strain it is enduring.

"Don't wear dark colours usually," Lestrade says. He takes a sip of his punch. "Always thought they made me look a bit forbidding. Not what you need, trying to get witnesses to open up. But I thought, well... fancy holiday, why not?"

During the days, his wardrobe has indeed cycled through loose linens and paler tones. Not that it's been a problem, of course. Mycroft has still ripped into the man at every possible opportunity.

Something about this shirt has seized him by the soul, though. He can't stop staring.

"Maybe I should wear it more often," Lestrade remarks. His eyes glitter, increasingly aware of the effect he's had. "Y'know… just round and about."

Mycroft drinks.

It's this place, he tells himself. It's the glowing paper-ball lights, the balmy night air, the sea breathing deeply just a hundred feet away. It's the beauty in the details. He'd hoped this venture would be diverting—relaxing—and yes, in truth a little filthy.

But he hadn't realised how intense it would become.

Perhaps he should have done. After all, Greg Lestrade is a more coveted example of masculinity than Mycroft has ever encountered in his life, and this is the French Caribbean. The nights here last forever: long, lazy, hot-skinned nights on twisted hotel sheets, indulging himself with the body which had tanned to perfection within three days; restless hands which roam Mycroft's paleness in protective wonder, grasping and stroking and wanting; deep, molasses-dark eyes which gleam at his every shocked moan and stuttered plea. Lestrade was calling him gorgeous by their first morning after.

Part of Mycroft still marvels he accepted the offer at all.  _ "I think you and I should perhaps get to know each other better, inspector… how would coffee suit you?—in Martinique?" _

And now he casually arrives for dinner, dressed like that.

It's no surprise Mycroft can't even keep order over his own face.

"I suspect I shan't taste a mouthful of this meal," he says with a sigh, and takes a drink.

Lestrade replies without the faintest flicker of shame. 

"Taste me later," he says. "I'll make up for it."

Mycroft's soul seems to groan. He watches, helpless, as Lestrade begins to toy with the top button of his shirt, rubbing it between his index finger and thumb. He gazes across the fluttering tealights into Mycroft's eyes.

"Warm tonight," he remarks. "Kinda stuffy out here on the terrace."

Mycroft has never needed to fuck someone quite so badly in his life. "Undo that button immediately."

"Is that an order?" Lestrade asks, one eyebrow lifting.

"It's..." Mycroft's brain doesn't know. It gapes at him, lost. Is it an order? Or is it a plea? He doesn't care. "Undo the bloody button."

Grinning, Lestrade slides the button from its fabric slit. His loosens the neck of his shirt to accommodate the new arrangement, and the additional expanse of collarbone vanishes Mycroft's hunger for food. He wants to tug the shirt open just a little further, just a little more, get his mouth on Lestrade's neck, make him shiver, nuzzle into the deep black fabric, lick the bronzed glow of his skin. It's too much. 

_ Heaven help me. _

"Are you gonna make it through dinner?" Lestrade says, grinning across the table.

Mycroft wants to squirm. He settles for a discreet shift. "Time will tell."

"D'you want to head down to the beach after?"

_ Lord. _ "Perhaps."

"Find somewhere quiet," Lestrade murmurs, rolling the edge of his ti punch glass along his lower lip. "Make it not so quiet there."

Mycroft considers this suggestion. He then picks up his punch glass and drains it, emptying its contents in one gulp. Lestrade grins down at the table, biting his lip.

Mycroft replaces the glass just as a waitress appears to take their order.

"Do forgive us," he says to her, ever gracious, then gets to his feet and takes Lestrade by the arm. "My partner and I will in fact be returning in an hour. Please charge the drinks to room 209."

Down on the sand, sheltered behind an outcrop of rock and a thick patch of palm trees, he gets his mouth at last on Lestrade's damn neck.

"Partner?" Lestrade whispers, barely audible over the sound of the waves. As Mycroft digs his teeth in, he moans and his throat muscles clench. "Ohh—Christ—"

Mycroft makes short work of his belt buckle. He's had nine days of practice now.

"I told you this couldn't continue," he says, as he tugs it apart. "Afterwards. Back in London."

Lestrade swallows; his fingers twitch on Mycroft's back. 

"I know, gorgeous. S'fine." He tenses just a little. "I get it. You can't handle that kind of distraction."

Mycroft pushes his hands beneath the waistband of Lestrade's boxer shorts, gets hold of his cock and finally earns the shudder he's been craving all this time.

"I am revising my decision," he breathes, stroking, and feels Lestrade's tremor as if it's his own.

"Really?" Greg is panting already, his eyes bright and fogged with enjoyment as Mycroft works him in his grasp. "Because of the shirt?"

"Because of many things."

"Okay—" Greg twitches hard, bites down on another moan and lets his head fall back against the tree. "F-Fuck, Myc—fuck, fuck…"

He comes whimpering into Mycroft's hands, panting his pleasure to the hot night air. Mycroft nuzzles against the black collar as he does, drinking in the scent of his neck, licking the salt from his skin. 

_ Mine,  _ he thinks, his heart heaving.  _ Mine. All mine. _

Back in London, Mycroft's superiors are told they can either tolerate the slight lapse in his focus, or they can lose his consultancy services entirely.

For the rest of their lives, whenever Greg wants something, he puts on a black shirt.


End file.
